


Heat of fusion

by StormXPadme



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Butt Plugs, Cock Rings, Come Eating, Comeplay, Cutting, Drinking, Dungeon, Elvenking's Halls, Facials, Knifeplay, M/M, Mirkwood, Nipple Clamps, Nipple Torture, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Play, Restraints, Rimming, Third Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26042941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormXPadme/pseuds/StormXPadme
Summary: After the War of the Ring, Lord Elrond sends Glorfindel to Eryn Lasgalen to give him something to do before they will all sail to Valinor. Glorfindel is perfectly ready to take it up with spiders, unruly soldiers and orcs. What he's not expected is ending up in the King's sex dungeon on his first evening.
Relationships: Glorfindel/Thranduil (Tolkien)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bigdaddybrynjolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bigdaddybrynjolf/gifts).



> Created out of a tumblr meme of dialogue writing prompts by mallornblossom; prompt: “You say ‘I hate you’, but all I hear is ‘fuck me’.”
> 
> This oneshot has also been heavily inspired by wonderful pieces of art by dear mallornblossom. Thanks for your continuous amazing art, hun. You're so much loved and appreciated <3.

“You say ‘I hate you’, but all I hear is ‘fuck me’.”

Unflinching at the crude mannish expression, Thranduil looks at him long and hard, not breaking eye contact for even one second while he empties another glass to the last drop. There’s not even a hint of blush on his pale cheeks.

Glorfindel’s cock promptly twitches its interest. _Oh_.

“Bold of you to assume assume I would allow a lower Lord of a ruined city to do the fucking.”

Well. If that isn’t the Dorwinion speaking, this last drink in privacy, after the most boring welcome reception Glorfindel has ever been subjected to, just got a lot more interesting.

In theory only, of course.

“Bold of you to assume, a drunk coward walling himself in in his own castle is good enough for my cock _or_ my ass.”

His old favorite enemy just huffs and reaches for a leftover grape on his plate to throw it into his mouth, again, not lowering his eyes for a second. “You think too highly of yourself. There are few worth the trouble of bothering to shield oneself from a marriage bond amidst intercourse, Lord of Gondolin. And I would rather mate with a Mûmak than risk having to put up with a glorified drama queen for the rest of my eternity.”

This is actually starting to be fun. Glorfindel leans back on his chair just enough to cross his legs on the table, casually ignoring the disapproving frown on thick dark eyebrows. “As far as I remember, it was you who declared cold war on Lórien, because Lady Galadriel showed you your place. You’re hardly in a position to judge dramatics.”

An icy grin, bordering on cruel, on his opponent’s thin lips almost has him cringe. “If you dislike my _place_ so much, Lord Glorfindel, feel free to leave anytime. Oh, wait. That’s right. You can’t. Your _master_ ordered you to clean up my armory while your boyfriend is giving council in Gondor. Was he afraid you would throw yourself off a cliff again out of pure boredom?”

“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s twice the elf you are, though. In every regard.” Glorfindel is first to finally break contact to these unsettling, icy-bright blues, just to leave absolutely no doubt about what he means, letting his gaze wander down Thranduil’s embroidered velvet robe.

The famous eyebrow raises maybe the fourth if an inch higher. “Unless you’re so desperate for attention that you’ve been getting off on spying on me in my hot grotto, I doubt that you would know.”

"Who’s flattering himself now?” Glorfindel leans his head back with a quiet laugh, pleasantly buzzed after his sixth glass, finally free from all the worries that plagued him ever since the end of the war. At least the supplies here are excellent, which will definitely be the best part of this enforced quest. Tomorrow, he’ll be out of this damn palace, hunting spiders, and there will be enough adrenaline in his body again to stop his tiring train of thoughts.

Getting himself in trouble with one of the most incalculable elves of these realms before would be the greatest stupidity since deciding that hair ties are overrated.

“Alright, so just for the protocol, _my King_ : The only reason I would ever take pity on a spoiled brat like you and take them to bed, was the chance to teach them some desperately needed manners.”

For a moment, Thranduil actually looks a little bit offended, but a deep sip of an already refilled glass takes care of that little pout.

“A bed? That’s what you call discipline? No wonder you couldn’t manage to put a ring on that pale faced Noldo yet.”

“I see. You’re volunteering as a test subject then, so I can learn how to do better?” The alcohol has made Glorfindel’s tongue maybe a little _too_ loose. Not that this is ever going to happen, but admittedly, considering all the things he would do that attractive body given half a chance, just to finally wipe that damn arrogant smirk off the King’s face, is tempting.

This is a game two can play and he’s determined to win. Not missing the way his opponent’s eyes are slowly roaming his taller, broader shape, the way he swings his hips a little on purpose, he moves to the other side of the table and sits down on top of it, on an empty space close to the King. Not his fault, this dining room lacks chairs.

“Think you can handle a Balrog slayer, my King? It is not advisable. They say, you’ve already come a little too close to fire once before.”

Thranduil hasn’t moved one bit except for that still unnervingly calm hand playing with his half-full glass. But Glorfindel could swear, his pupils are dilated when he eyes him from head to toe, definitely lingering a little too long on the spot where a slight bulge has built under Glorfindel’s tight breeches.

"I told you. A King doesn’t bend over for anyone. If yours used to, it’s no wonder your people all ended up where they did.”

For a moment, Glorfindel’s world turns red and he’s ready to move in an instant, his hand already reaching back to the dagger he’s stored under his belt because the King doesn’t like weapons in his private chambers. Probably a good idea, considering his sharp tongue.

He gets himself under control again even before he notices that his opponent’s other hand is no longer on the armrest of his chair. A lazy, almost bored tap with the tip of a dagger against his thigh artery reminds him that starting a fight over honor in here isn’t a good idea, for many reasons.  
His cock definitely is rock hard now though.

Oh, damn it all.

Crossing his legs in a futile attempt to hide his growing interest, he feigns a shrug, annoyed to feel his own composure breaking. About high time to either get out of here or set some ground rules for a game he’s not even sure he’s ready for yet. “A real King knows when it’s time to surrender to a stronger component for his own good.”

“And you think you’re such an opponent.” Thranduil still doesn’t look impressed, but his hand on his weapon is definitely shaking a little now when he uses it to spear another grape and slowly pulls it between his lips, teeth grazing the diamond sharp blade.

Glorfindel smiles, all teeth and no mirth, and braces himself on his elbow to lean closer to the King, just enough to lick that tiny trace of juice off the corner of his mouth that the little game has left. Maybe there’s a drop of blood in it too, who knows? He’s definitely tasted worse. And spotting the shivers running down the side of Thranduil’s neck is worth mustering up the courage for the unsanctioned proximity.

He’s got no dagger slitting his throat right now, so obviously, his senses and instincts work just fine even on his second barrel of Dorwinion.

“I would have you _begging_ for my cock at the end of the night. If you do it nicely enough, maybe you can have it.”

Thranduil just snorts. “Tell me again, when have we gone from wild theories to negotiations?”

“Maybe when you got so hard that I can smell your stained robe from here?”

It’s the first time, Thranduil seems really thrown off, his jaw tightens.

Glorfindel uses the second the other needs to long to think of a witty answer for the death blow. “You’re not backing out of a challenge, are you?”

“Give me one reason why I should indulge in your perverted fantasies and bother to deal you yet another pitiful defeat, Gondolindrim.” That doesn’t sound provocative at all anymore, and those pretty hollowed cheeks have finally reddened.

Glorfindel knows when he’s winning, and once he has his teeth in an opponent, he never lets go. To whatever end, as history can attest to. “Come on. You’ve got nothing to lose if you’re as strong willed as you say, right?”

He decides he’s been careful long enough and impatiently brushes plate and glass aside to scoot even closer to the King, to slowly let his hand travel from Thranduil’s lean chest lower, not surprised at all to find a considerable hard on pressing into his palm. His first slow strokes don’t get him more than another shiver and the quietest of gasps, but that’s all he needs. For now.

“Feels like you could use some relief there, my King … What do you say? Don’t you want to come all over that pretty little face? If you can hold on that long before begging to be fucked, that is.”

Thranduil gets up abruptly, just in time before Glorfindel’s lips can come to close to his, a move that almost throws him off balance. Without another word, the King turns and leaves, but he leaves the side door wide open which apparently means, Glorfindel is supposed to follow.

Well, his stay in Eryn Lasgalen just took a most unexpected turn.


	2. Chapter 2

Glorfindel only realizes that the King has been serious about that “no beds” rule when the high heeled footsteps in the distance that he’s following, lead further and further down some stairs. The hollow thud between the underground rocky halls is the only thing to orientate himself on as he quickly threatens to lose direction in intertwined tunnels. More than once, it’s just one of three doors being half-opened that tells him where to go.

He has a funny feeling, he would need more than an hour or two if he should be forced to find his way back to the surface alone, which would hurt his pride more than anything. Somehow, he has a funny feeling, said pride is about to take a significant hit as it is.

Maybe he’s underestimated his favorite enemy a little. As much as he hates it, he has to admit that the endless wandering in deserted, almost completely darkened surroundings that all look the same sobers his formerly fairly excited, confident spirits, nervous weariness nagging on him when he finally reaches the heavy metal door behind which the footsteps have stopped.

There’s not a single light shining from the room; he can’t even be certain, the sneaky Sinda bastard is _in_ there. Maybe the King is hiding somewhere behind the next turn and waiting to lock Glorfindel up like all the other prisoners he’s made in the course of the centuries …

Well, Thranduil would be very welcome to explain himself to Lord Elrond in that case.

Glorfindel rolls his eyes at his childish unease and finally enters, after a moment to clear his mind of all unnecessary emotions and sharpen his senses. So he doesn’t startle half as much as doubtlessly intended when the door indeed closes in his back immediately, mostly because he hears his opponents breathing not too far from him, and a pulse going just a little too quick. The door mechanism is a nice trick, admittedly, but apart from that, this is quite the trivial little horror cabinet.

“Is this where you take unruly dwarves and clumsy servants to scare them, _Your Majesty_? Not to disappoint, but I haven’t been afraid of the dark since the Years of the Trees.”

“Dwarves are not to my preference, Lord. And my servants …” A short flicker and hiss finally tell Glorfindel where to lay his eyes exactly, and when finally one of many brass candle holders in the room comes to light, he forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“My servants know better than to seek out my private pleasure room.”

The King is sitting in a high chair at the head end of a room that is almost as big as the entrance of his palace. The chair looks close enough to his actual throne, and he still hasn’t taken off his damn crown, the rest of neat royal appearance though, has been lost somewhere outside on those endless hallways.

Thranduil is completely naked, except for the floor-length cape still draped around his shoulders, the midnight-blue silk framing his shape, and his knee-length boots. Lounging sideways on one broad arm rest with his left leg lazily draped over the other, his shamelessly spread thighs reveal that his interest in this game hasn’t dropped a bit, on the contrary.

Glorfindel’s mouth starts to water at the sight of a not scandalously long but very thick cock, first beads of white dripping from the tip invitingly, but he’s still too busy staring to follow that clear prompt.

_Pleasure room_ sounds highly sugarcoated for what could very well be an orc’s torture dungeon. The plain walls and the shelves of countless racks, made of expensive wood, are littered with a variety of toys and instruments, some of which Glorfindel is not sure he could tell the use of if someone asked. There’s all kind of wooden, leather and metal constructions to restraint a body in more ways than even Glorfindel’s very lively fantasy has come up with so far. And due to the little lightning, he can’t even make out every corner of that square hall yet.

He’s not sure he wants to. A healthy amount of respect for his opponent’s private desires has started to build in him, and Glorfindel knows, he has to keep his reactions and desires carefully in check now if he wants a chance to keep the upper hand in this game. But the truth is: He’s _intrigued_.

“I would be more impressed if you weren’t well-known for your love for great entrances already, I suppose.” He gives half a shrug, to shake himself out of the short stupor, and finally makes a move to approach that thr… _chair_ , to get a first touch of what is being offered there so generously to him.

A sharp gesture of his opponent has him pause in confusion before he remembers what kind of vague agreement they have come to earlier. Right. Glorfindel has to play along a little before he can claim his prize tonight. Flatter the King in all his self-indulgence and that aggressive dominance worn like armor, spoil him a little like a good little submissive would, and take him apart piece by piece, until that gorgeous toned body is all his to play with.

 _Easy_.

Glorfindel has needed exactly 2 weeks to have Erestor ó Imladris on his knees back then. How hard a case to crack can the King be?

Still, the hairs at the back of his neck are on full alert when their eyes meet for the first time.

The flickering of the flames in Thranduil’s pupils is one of raw _want_. Want not just for someone to please him - he can probably have that from every second person around these halls -, but for someone to let themselves be deeply devoured by the King, whole and raw, if need be. There’s a wolfish touch to the way he bares his teeth, more a growl than a smile, and the way his eyes roam over Glorfindel’s body once more.

Again, it takes only one gestures, two careless fingers waving to the side, to signal what his opponent wants.

At least for the moment, Glorfindel is happy to give it to him, for his breeches have become painfully tight alone, and there’s a fine line of sweat collecting in the too deep line of his back. A little of that tension fades when his opponent’s scrutinizing stare softens, with every piece of clothing he sheds more, the tip of a wickedly long tongue moistening too dry lips as the King regards him with somewhat of an appreciative nod.

In his growing desire to finally get his hands on that gorgeous body and suck some of that damn over-confidence out of that elf, Glorfindel decides to take that as a confirmation that he can finally approach.

This time, he can’t hold back from rolling his eyes with a groan, when that admonishingly held up palm stops him once more. “What now? All this intimidating furniture just for a little staring?”

“Not at all.” There’s a honey-like silkiness in the King’s formerly so harsh voice that betrays the natural demand in his posture, the almost bored tap of his heel, the way his chin is raised just a little too high as he towers over his visitor by nothing more than two narrow stone steps. “But since you were so eager to learn, dear, I should think it’s time you started.”

The smirk deepens, that sharp glistening of strong looking teeth shining in the weak light. Slowly, the King lowers his eyes to the ground, leaving no doubt about where he wants to see Glorfindel right now. “Show me how a Gondolindrim worships their King, will you? I want you to crawl. _Or_ …”

In just a matter of one syllable, the ever-lasting rejection and warning is back in that deep husk. With an unnerved sigh, Thranduil reaches for the edge of of his cloak to cover himself up again, though Glorfindel has done little more than open his mouth to protest yet. “Or you are very welcome to get dressed and call for one of my servants to take you back to your room. They’ll think nothing of it, don’t worry. You’re not the first they see leave this hall with their tail between their legs.”

Truth is, Glorfindel is thinking about it. Taunting never bothered him much - he’s fought too many Balrogs for that - but there’s limits to his submission, and the last one usually stops at Erestor’s bedroom door. He’s not sure he’s in the mood to twist himself that much out of shape, just for a fine piece of ass to be his at the end of the night.

But when he tries to turn away and look where the fuck he’s dropped his breeches, he sees Thranduil’s shoulders slump from the corner of his eyes, and a twist of annoyed disappointment replace the self-confidence, Glorfindel has wanted gone so badly a second ago.  
He still wants it to be, but he wants to see it get lost in desperate lust, preferably while he’s pounding that blonde bastard back to the Second Age, bent over the armrest of his own throne, and if it takes a little show to get there … Well, people like to call him dramatic for a reason.

The rough coldness of rock against his knees and palms has him shiver for a second, a sensation quickly chased away by the newly heated glance he is regarded with when he approaches his prey.

People tend to call Glorfindel vain and he probably can’t argue with that, but the simple truth is that he’s lived and loved long enough to know exactly where his advantages lie and how to play them. He’s not hurrying things, making his soon-to-be lover wait for him at his very own pace, giving him nothing more than a good view of an well-trained, firm behind and a strong jaw thrust forward in challenge to focus on while their eyes are locked in that stubborn mutual staring once more.

Glorfindel knows he’s made one first and very important score in their game by casually licking his lips, just when he reaches the bottom step, seeing as Thranduil turns on his chair suddenly, just a little too fast, greeting him with his legs spread wide open for him to take his place there.

With all of his discipline, he manages to bite back a grin and settles before his lover as comfortably as possible, grabbing Thranduil’s slender thighs in his large hands. He makes very sure to let the golden fleece that is his hair brush over his lover’s exposed lower stomach and groin as he turns his head to those gorgeous long legs. After a teasing lick over the sensitive skin right under the golden seam of these damn black boots, his lips ghost over the inside of one trembling thigh, kissing, nibbling, occasionally sucking a small bruise, until there’s finally the first touch, he’s been longing for, a hand being firmly buried in his hair.

Glorfindel expects to be pulled closer and gasps out a quiet yelp when he is yanked away instead, eyes of bursting ice in a stern face glaring down at him.

“I cannot remember giving you permission to touch me,” Thranduil tells him coolly, only the deepened flush spreading on his cheeks and chest giving away that he’s enjoyed the attention.

Well, that would have been _too_ easy. This time, Glorfindel _does_ roll his eyes but he’s wise enough to take his hands off.

And still composed enough to stifle a second pained sound when that same unforgiving hand in his curls pulls him up. Again, he’s being eyed from head to toe, this time from up close, until his breath is going too quick and uneven and he’s unsure what the do with his hands.

When he finally folds them behind his back for a lack of other options, he earns a light, almost distant pat on his behind as a reward that immediately leaves his half-hard cock a lot more interested in the proceedings.

That’s obviously where his lover’s interest lies, too. Ring-adorned fingertips start tracing maddeningly light traces on Glorfindel‘s erection, far from tender or even stimulating, it almost feels like he’s being measured.

He only realizes that this is exactly what’s happening when Thranduil lifts up the lid of a hidden hollow space in one of the armrests and the glistening of gold, silver and jewels breaks in the weak light. He’s still not granted an explanation, not even another look, Thranduil just murmurs something about “Too damn bronze, needs more contrast” under his breath while rummaging in that secret drawer.

The bizarre situation does nothing to dampen Glorfindel’s growing arousal, which results in an unrestrained first moan when his lover finally _really_ touches him, a demanding grasp around his girth. A sound that turns into a baffled groan when he realizes, that’s not happening for satisfaction at all as thin but unforgiving silver chains are being quickly wrapped around his balls and the base of his cock, putting any kind of release out of reach for now. The extravagant jewelry is topped of by an obscenely large, flat ruby that comes to lie on top of his cock, nestled right against his groin, when Thranduil finally lets go of him. A mocking and yet brilliantly beautiful detail that Glorfindel can just stare at for a moment.

Then a sly grin spreads on his lips, it‘s his eyebrow that comes to meet his hairline this time. He hasn’t been aware that they mean it so literally when they say that Thranduil’s biggest undoing is his love for shiny things.

"Are you sure it’s a wise idea to help me out with even _more_ stamina when you’re the one supposed to outlast me, _my King_?”

“Who said we were done decorating you, dear?”

The clamps that Thranduil holds up next look harmless enough, so Glorfindel keeps silent still, with gritted teeth and his lips firmly pressed together, wondering in his head how he managed to get himself in that situation, but way too far in, way too _horny_ at this point to cancel.

That is until he realizes that the obscenely large crystals at the side of those clamps ware in truth smartly hidden screws. After the first cruel turn already, his hardened nipples are suddenly painfully squeezed instead of a pleasantly massaged. His hands instinctively comes up to tear these damn things off, only to be caught by another, surprisingly strong set of hands encircling his wrists, unyielding pressure forcing his arms behind his back again.

Thanks to the powers granted to Glorfindel at his return, he wouldn’t even have to break a sweat to free himself immediately; instead he finds himself turning around, like on strings, when ordered to in that low husk again that by now he seriously has to consider to have hypnotic powers. There’s simply no other explanation why he doesn’t even struggle when a pair of too cold cuffs is slapped on him next, when a chain clicks that will prevent any attempts of freeing himself without painful injuries for the moment.

Not good. Valar, that ass isn’t even _that_ good …

But if there was something that has always been in Glorfindel‘s way, it’s his own damn stubbornness. Now more than ever, he wants that arrogant bastard of a King struggling and writhing under him while he’s skewering him with his cock; and while a single stern word would have been enough to end all this as he very well knows, that would also mean, that fantasy is never going to become reality.

For the moment, he’s become the King’s very personal living toy, a jewel to adorn Thranduil’s private throne room by its own. And Glorfindel had to lie, saying that realization didn’t pass straight by his annoyance and his plotting for revenge, down to his groin, making him buck when that hand from before reaches around and grabs him again, stroking with a little more intent this time.

“I think, we can work with that, what do you say?” He could _hear_ the smug bastard grin in his back, he doesn’t even need to look over his shoulder.

Any spoken answer is unnecessary; Glorfindel’s body has long started to betray him, a faint sheen of sweat glistening on his chest and back, hips thrusting forward into that too slow touch that will bring nothing but frustration. The slight burn and throbbing in his bound genitalia and nipples just adds to the heat floating in his veins which makes it hard to act on that unwilling startle going through his hips when the touch of smooth fluid drips over his lower back next, running between his cheeks in small rivulets.

While hes not exactly _averse_ to giving that gorgeous cock a long hard ride, in some regards, Glorfindel can be awfully old-fashioned. He very much prefers to be kissed before he’s fucked.

His posture must betray him once again, because a light, almost gentle kiss is placed on the small of his back, the slowly bobbing hand on his cock never stopping its administrations while he’s slowly, carefully being breached, by nothing but a cool, long finger at first, but deep enough to feel the ridges of sturdy gems irritate his sensitive rim.

“Just giving you something to do, dear, since you seemed so _awfully_ eager earlier.”

  
Glorfindel doesn’t have much time to think what that’s supposed to mean. He’s too busy not losing balance on his shaking legs when the continuous stroking takes him apart in rhythm with the fingers scissoring him open. His quiet moans echo through the half empty hall, and he can tell by the rapid breathing that hits his back that the King is not half unaffected by this first game as he pretends.

But for the moment, there’s nothing more, just that pulse in his loins, his sight swimming from gradually growing arousal, his voice rough from suppressing any too loud noise, until just for the shortest of moments, he considers asking for a break or at least a change of pace … Only that would have meant _weakness_ , and by showing any of that, he would forgo his only hope to turn this game around at some point for good.  
So he just sighs in relief when both of those skilled hands suddenly let go of him, only to almost topple forward when sturdy metal is pressing against his stretched, well-oiled hole next. The toy is thicker than what he’s taken so far that night, so another few minutes of torturuous teasing pass, sweat burning in Glorfindel’s eyes as he trembles under the hand firmly keeping him in place by the chains between his wrists. When the plug finally slips home, his knees give out on him.

“There. Now, isn’t that a sight to behold.” A much harder slap to his ass this time that has his muscles clench and draws a quiet scream from his lips, which pleases his lover audibly. “Let’s just make sure, this doesn’t go anywhere, though. You carry a very precious load there, dear.”

Judging by the jewel Glorfindel is already wearing and the odd sensation of fingernails slowly tracing every ridge and bump in whatever surface is worked in at the base of that toy, Glorfindel had at least a vague idea, that’s not even exaggerated.

He’s hard pressed to care though, once the leftover chains from his harness are being threaded through holes at that very base of the plug, securing it in place and ensuring even more torment by his captor throughout the night.

Instead of protesting once again, he hangs his head low in a moment of temporary defeat, trying in vain to get the yearning shaking of his body under control while the appreciative caress of narrow, cool hands starts to explore his body, his chest, his sides, his legs, before going back up his slumped back, leaving out his most sensitive parts, until every inch of his skin feels reddened and oversensitive, screaming for more attention and especially relief from this heat that he knows he won’t get.

For the moment, he’s completely in the hands of a most unlikely lover and can only endure whatever will be dished out to him next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil's little sex jewel collection was heavily inspired by this lovely shop mallornblossom found: https://www.enchantedbodyjewelry.com/penetrating-body-jewelry/anal-plugs


	3. Chapter 3

“Well? Shall we try that again, dear?”

Glorfindel winces at the abrupt stop of an almost affectionate touch all over his body that has left his skin yearning for more. His neglected cock gives another protesting twitch in its chains. He is being ignored, of course; and when he follows a prompting tug on the chain between his wrists to the left and turns around, it’s impatience and authority once more that he’s being regarded with instead of admiration and care.

The gesture of one pointed fingertip is unambiguous, so he gets to his knees once more, hardly even startling at the unpleasant impact of already scraped skin against hard rock that he can’t cushion with his arms bound like that.

This time Glorfindel knows better than to assume, and his restraint earns him a appreciative nod. A quick caress over his jaw lifts it so he can stare right at that damn satisfied smirk on his royal lover’s lips.

“A little less attitude this time. I would hate to punish you even more before we even got started.”

As if to emphasize his words, Thranduil reaches down to Glorfindel’s chest to give the screws of his nipple clamps another half-turn.

It’s enough to make Glorfindel groan from the worse-growing, sharp bite of metal crushing the reddened nubs further, an unpleasant sting spreading out, turning into tingling heat once it reaches its groin. He spares himself a protesting comment that would only lead to more unpleasant results no doubt, as long as he’s being so much at disadvantage here.

Instead, he frees his mind of all anger about his own carelessness, all humiliation, unfulfilled yearning, everything that would only disturb his focus, and rather follows the prompting tug of a hand deeply buried in his hair that signals him, he’s finally allowed to put his mouth to good use.

A strange kind of confidence has been building inside of him in the last minutes that might probably have seemed weird to his dominant lover, given Glorfindel’s all but ideal position. He has a very hard time not smiling to himself when he bends over the King’s lap to give the pretty cock waiting for him there a first long lick.

Truth is, Glorfindel now knows how much his opponent is truly underestimating him and that it’s only a matter of time before their roles will be critically reversed. If Thranduil _actually_ thinks, a little jewelry on Glorfindel’s body and a tamely sized plug in his backside is enough to keep him under control, he’s in for a very rude awakening.

For now he’s biding his time though, losing himself in the pleasure of consuming a new lover with all his senses. He quickly finds he could get addicted to the earthy, sweet note of autumn dew that is the King’s very own taste. A drug he makes sure to get as much as possible of, every single drop spilled on his lover’s widely spread legs and his groin, before finally turning to the spring of these thick beads of lust.

Glorfindel breathes the other in deeply as he takes him in, inch by painstakingly slow inch, reveling in the uncontrolled twitch of hips he’s being rewarded with, thanks to his century-long trained abilities of ignoring details like a gag reflex. He swallows, thickly, humming and sighing around the heavy flesh weighing down on his tongue. Where his shoulders are loosely sandwiched between a set of shapely legs, he relaxes his own muscles completely, to register every smallest drop of sweat forming on his lover’s velvet skin, every tremor on the insides of his thighs when Glorfindel licks over his openly exposed cock and balls in long stripes, filing the most sensitive spots for later use.

By the time he returns to let the curved head of that beautiful dick rest on his lower lip and draws lazy circles with his tongue around the slit, his lover has deeply sunken into his fake throne, his free hand gripping the armrest painfully hard. By the time, Glorfindel lets both of these neat round balls fall easily into his mouth and starts to suck ever so lightly, the King is shamelessly moaning away, and his eyes finally fall close.

Well, that has taken a lot less than expected. Glorfindel forbids himself from becoming too cheeky - that’s what has got him into this position in the first place. He covers his delightful chuckle by humming once more around the oversensitive flesh between his teeth, gently gives the hardened nubs in their frail protection a small massage with just the tip of his tongue. It’s enough of a distraction to still be unwatched as he stretches his arms a little, reaching for one of the chains hanging from that jewel so cruelly binding his own genitalia. The knot that connects his harness to that damn toy inside of him takes him exactly two seconds to open, but he decides to not risk too much by taking it out just yet - admittedly, the hefty weight and completely smooth metal surface is a very nice stimulation anyway.

Instead, he gets to work on what he needed just that tiny tool between his fingertips for.

If he’s to use it inconspicously enough, he’s going to need another distraction, though. He withdraws just enough to carefully work one of his immobilized shoulders between the chair and the back of one of his lover’s slender knees, glancing up at the King from under his lashes with what Erestor would call his best puppy look.

Thranduil is not besotted that easily though; his eyes narrow, he’s visibly unsure if he’s supposed to give up even a bit of power here. But the way, Glorfindel licks his lips again, his chin, presenting the considerable length and flexibility of his tongue, is enough. The King quietly groans and spreads his legs even further, placing them on the armrests to open himself up intimately to further touch.

Glorfindel waists no time getting his mouth back on that now fully exposed groin, nothing but provocative kitten licks wandering down the whole length of his captor’s cock first, followed by a light nuzzle against each of those too full, heavy balls, fleeting kisses along the sensitive patch of skin underneath.

Then he goes to work.

Just like he’s known he would, Thranduil melts into a puddle in a matter of seconds. Both his hands are buried in Glorfindel’s hair now, occasionally pulling just a little too firmly when Glorfindel has his tongue especially deep in that twitching channel, but mostly just for purchase. He’s riding Glorfindel’s face with absolutely no shame, completely surrendering to his lust now, and that’s honestly far more attractive than it should be.

Glorfindel feels almost a little sorry for the scare he’s about to give his lover … almost. Probably would be much more if his own desire wasn’t still consuming him so badly, his cock throbbing against the crystal-adorned chains keeping him in check, his too empty feeling hole clenching down in vain on that much too small, lifeless toy. The cool pressure of the stone-made chair against his tortured nipples is more further teasing than a real help, too.

No, he’s not going to feel too bad about giving the King a little taste of his own medicine. But unlike a certain Sinda ruler, he’s not _cruel_ , so he tries his best to spoil his lover with honest effort before. There are some things, only the Ages teach you, and those techniques don’t fail to effect his significantly younger lover either.

It takes Glorfindel exactly a minute and a half to know when he has to slow down with his enthusiastic licking and sucking a little, to not push his lover too close to the edge, the rock hard curve of Thranduil’s cock twitching, untouched, against his face while he gently breathes kisses over his lover’s slick-spit hole, ever until those passionate, drawn-out moans subside a little … only to plunge his tongue back in that sinfully tight channel even further then. He shows his captor as little mercy as he’s been treated with himself, immediately pulling back an inch or two when those strong muscles tighten up on him especially hard. Waiting there, immobile, until they release again before thrusting back his tongue inside even further, his jaw pressed closely to that firm ass, his own quick breathing ghosting against his lover’s balls where they lay definitely a little too close to his lover's body.

Well, there’s ways to help with that. Glorfindel waits exactly that split second when another of Thranduil's loud moan echoes through the dungeon before he pulls the cuffs off his wrists that he’s long opened. Reaching up in a flash, he closes the restraints around his lover’s lower arms instead.

He’s on his feet quicker than the surprised hiss comes from Thranduil’s lips and kneels on the throne between his lover’s legs, immobilizing his body with the weight of his own and with both hands braced on his thighs.

“Don’t you know you should never leave a warrior out of sight, _Your Majesty_?”

Narrow, ice-blue eyes glare up at him in unbridled anger for a moment as the King tries to wriggle his way out from under Glorfindel’s much larger body.  
Then both the expression and the resistance is gone, replaced in split seconds by what Glorfindel can only call the smug, very satisfied expression of a cat that just licked a bowl of cream clean … given the situation not exactly what he expected.

That is until feels a familiar tap of metal against his skin once more, this time right above his heart. The cuffs lie open, forgotten between their bodies. From inside the biggest of the rings on his captor’s hands, a diamond sharp blade has emerged that softly caresses over Glorfindel’s skin as he stares down at it, completely blindsided for a moment.

“Did you really think, there is any kind of tool in this room that does not bend to my will, general of Imladris?” The amused purr in Thranduil’s husky voice matches his grin perfectly, and the latter only grows when an annoyed frown settles on Glorfindel’s brow.

The blade presses harder into his skin, just enough to draw a single drop of blood, but it’s enough for his warrior instincts to set in and get him to try and withdraw immediately. He doesn’t make it far.

The second he takes his weight of Thranduil’s legs, they wrap around his body with amazing strength to keep him in place. His struggle to break free is short-lived as the small but very mean blade comes to lie against his throat next.

And that’s where it remains as Thranduil pulls him down for a crushing kiss, their tongues engaging in the same fierce duel that they keep giving each other. For the moment, the King has won once more, and Glorfindel is impressed enough to admit, sometimes losing doesn’t even feel that bad.

He whimpers into their kiss, flailing hands clawing down on his lover’s shoulders when the hand not laying at the side of his neck in an act of admirable composure, slips down to his chest, and another turn of those damn screws has his already sore nipples feel like they’re on fire. The hand dips lower then, a few quick strokes on his cock making up for the unpleasant sensation, but given that Glorfindel is still rock hard and the chains around his cock and balls only cut tighter into his skin, holding back any relief, that’s hardly mercy.

By the time, Thranduil reaches even lower, slowly but steadily pulling on the base of the plug seated so firmly inside of him, Glorfindel is reduced to a whining mess. It’s all he can do not to actually start asking for more, for _anything_ to take care of that overflowing heat in his cells, the painful clench in his lower body, when his lover starts fucking him with the toy in earnest.

Thranduil apparently is a quick learner when it comes to how to drive someone crazy. He never removes the toy completely, just keeps on torturing Glorfindel’s swollen rim by pulling it almost all the way out and then works it back into him, holding it in place with the widest part stretching him open for several long seconds. Then he just watches Glorfindel shake from glistening, lust-addled eyes, until Glorfindel can’t take the maddening sensation anymore and thrusts his hips down against it, riding himself back onto that plug he’s hated so much just a moment ago.

But it’s not enough, not by a long shot, and Glorfindel begins to suspect, his desired price this night has just slipped out of reach.

Sure, he could have just beat that knife away with a flicker of his wrist. It’s not like he seriously has to worry about the King harming him beyond a few scratches. But given the course of their power wrestling so far, that would only lead to another match of skill, reflexes and ultimately will, and while that is most satisfying on a battlefield, in his bedroom, Glorfindel still likes to get off best on enthusiastic consent.

By now, he basically stopped caring _how_ , he just wants to see that damn Sinda bastard come, screaming his name.

“I yield.” The hated words, very rare on his lips throughout the millennia, come a little to his own surprise while he’s still fighting his own pride. He hasn’t meant to, not _yet_ , but that damn bastard of a King has started giving that toy an evil little twist every time he thrusts it home, the tip almost, _almost_ grazing Glorfindel’s prostate, and he’s not sure he’s ever been so damn frustrated in a non-bedroom in his life.

“That’s nice. Knew you could be smart from time to time.”

Thranduil shows that damn wolf smile again but otherwise no reaction to the surrender he’s obviously suspected to come all along. When Glorfindel dares to glare, he moves his fingers from Glorfindel’s throat to his lips, the blades redrawing back into their sheath after a swift touch of thumb. He thrusts three of them in, the second Glorfindel opens his lips, rubbing over his tongue, the sides of his mouth, while the deadly weapon stays safely secured not a quarter of an inch from most sensitive tissue.

“No making faces anymore. Be good. Show me how much you need me.”

Glorfindel whimpers and sucks harder, working those delicate long digits with as much enthusiasm as the King’s cock earlier. Partly, at least, he’s being rewarded with that damn plug finally being put aside, replaced by living, moving, spit-slick flesh spearing him so much deeper, thrusting against all the right spots. His cock reacts to the further stimulation with a violent twitch, leaking precum all over that pretty jewel, his stomach and his King’s just as hard erection, and still there’s no release in sight.

He has half a mind to just reach down and rub himself against that pretty long shaft, trying to get them both to completion like that. Coming with a harness is difficult and not exactly pleasant but everything is better than that endless, searing _need_.

His lover’s hand withdraws abruptly before Glorfindel hasn’t done as much as let go off Thranduil’s shoulder, leaving him empty and wanting, his hole clenching down on nothing, and a quiet sob comes from his lips that the King kisses away, almost gently.

“None of that. You’ll have to use your words, dear. And remember, if you want something from a King, you’re going to have to ask _nicely_.”

“Oh, damn you, arrogant bastard …” Ten minutes ago, maybe, Glorfindel might still have had it in him to just turn and leave the damn room, all dignity long gone down the drain. Just a hint of warm fingertips grazing his cock keeps him in place. With a defeated sigh, he lowers his head to Thranduil’s shoulder. “Will you _please_ , _kindly_ , put your _gwib_ in my ass already?”

Thranduil laughs quietly into his ear - it sounds too shaky and broken to be really hurtful - and then gives the tip a hart bite, making Glorfindel yelp. The iron-hard grip of legs, formed by centuries of riding, finally loosens. A gentle push signals him to get up, give up the surprisingly comforting warmth of that close embrace.  
Glorfindel isn’t left cold and wanting for long. Once the King has sat back down properly again and oiled himself up with sterile, effective movements of his own hand, he wastes no time ordering Glorfindel to turn around and pulling him back on his lap.

After all that foreplay, Glorfindel sinks down on him easily, taking him in until he’s flush against his lover’s body, stretched open just in the perfect, almost too tight way, every of his nerves especially in his lower body too close to the surface, his skin covered in sweat. The position isn’t the very best for an easy ride and that’s of course exactly what the sneaky bastard wanted, for Glorfindel to move on top of him, chasing a relief that still won’t come, until his arm and thigh muscles are burning.

His lover meanwhile has his lips, his teeth on the side of his neck, leaving deep marks and murmuring encouragements occasionally. Frequent tugs on the clamps torturing his nipples draw louder moans from Glorfindel’s lips than the the frustrated grumble about _still_ being in that damn cock cage. He tightens up so much every time that he can feel his lover shudder and stiffen against him, gritting his teeth against or into his skin until he has himself under control again.

Obviously, Thranduil is very determined to not let this end too quickly for either of them, and the bastard has a lot more patience and stamina than Glorfindel initially thought.

So it comes down to him pleading _again_ , because by now he’s seeing stars, and his movements become too shaky and erratic to still please either of them much. His skin is burning, his head is swimming, all of his most sensitive parts are screaming from overstimulation, and he just needs … He _needs_. _Now_.

“ _Please_ …”

It’s just a broken whisper this time, but apparently it’s not true what they say: From time to time the King of Eryn Lasgalen does know how to deal out compassion after all. With a few quick movements of fingertips, the jewelry around Glorfindel’s cock and balls is finally gone, and his lover grabs his hips instead, fucking up into him in a hard, tight rhythm, angling his cock just right.

Before he knows, Glorfindel is coming, hard, painting the rocky floor before the throne, the stairs, his own legs, with stripes of white, moaning wantonly and definitely _not_ screaming his lover’s name (well, probably he is, but there’s always plausible deniability later).

It takes him a very confused moment, shivering all over, panting, cradled in his lover’s arms, before he feels, Thranduil hasn’t found his own release yet, and another too long second more to remember, why. Right. He’s promised the bastard something at the beginning of this night.

With a groan, he pushes himself upward when an admonishing slap hits one of his swollen nipples, whimpering at the loss of fullness and heat, and gets back down to where this mess started not too long ago, on his knees before a foreign King.

The new - and hopefully last - humiliation is quickly drowned out by the breathtakingly beautiful picture of his lover stroking himself to completion. His rapidly working, jewel-adorned hand is never stopping for even a second, while the other has reached between his spread legs, two fingers thrusting deep inside his own body in a last pure provocation about what Glorfindel will probably never have. With his pale skin softly glowing in the dying light of candles and his slightly disheveled blond tresses, the wooden crown askew on his head, Thranduil is a picture of pure, perfect sin, and one Glorfindel can easily forgive himself indulging in for one night.

He doesn’t need to be prompted first to open his mouth when it finally comes to an end, because he’s far too eager to taste that sweet note once more. The degrading and yet always so strangely erotic sensation of hot splashes of white hitting his face, his neck, his lips, is almost enough to have him hard again if he wasn’t so completely fucked out. He settles for licking his lips and then his fingers when he absently cleans himself, his free hand finally prying those damn clamps of his nipples where they left angry, deep welts. Glorfindel spots with a bit of pride from half-hooded eyes that the King’s spent cock gives another twitch at the sight, too.

Maybe another time, if the mood hits again which is doubtful. He’s come to Eryn Lasgalen to work.

He’s not resisting though when a pushy pair of lips suddenly hits his own again, a greedy tongue licking inside his mouth for the King to get a taste of himself - because _of course_ he would. Glorfindel is nice enough to not roll his eyes again and to keep his mouth shut. There’s nothing more to say anyway.

He’s still not feeling completely steady on his legs when he finally gets up to look for his clothes and startles so hard, he almost stumbles when he’s suddenly being addressed again.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

At least Glorfindel is sober enough to be snarky again. “Through that door and in my bed, if I’m lucky enough to find my way back upstairs. A soldier’s day starts early, Your Majesty.”

Somehow, he does not like that dangerous glint in Thranduil’s eyes at all, and even less, how he crosses his legs and leans back as if they have all time in the world.

“But how will you leave this hall when a song from my lips is the only thing that will open this lock, general?”

Slowly, it dawns on Glorfindel that he’s still in far more trouble then he thought.

And that this is going to be a very long night.


End file.
